Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

Either way, the best thing Conrad could do was foil Alston. He ran upstairs, changed into a suit, packed a couple of shirts into a small bag and set out for the High Street in the hope of finding a taxi.

Hendon Aerodrome, Middlesex

Squadron Leader Ebsworth watched the de Havilland Flamingo transport plane bearing its collection of VIPs and hangers-on heave itself off the runway at RAF Hendon into the skies, bound for Le Bourget. This was the second flight to Paris so far that morning. There was a lot of toing and froing between Hendon and France these days. The Prime Minister himself was due to return from Paris that afternoon after a two-day trip to see his French opposite number.

The panic was palpable. It was in the faces of the politicians and the staff officers. It was in the papers carried in the briefcases that they clutched so tightly. At times they seemed to Ebsworth like hens in a chicken run running back and forth with nowhere to hide from the fox outside, who was rapidly digging his hole underneath the wire.

‘Message from the ministry, sir.’

‘Thank you, corporal.’ Ebsworth took the piece of paper and examined it. It was from Rydal at the Air Ministry: Please tell Lieutenant de Lancey to cancel his mission and travel to Southampton docks immediately to join up with his unit.

Too late. Ebsworth scribbled out a quick reply informing Rydal de Lancey was already in the air. He wondered briefly what the lieutenant’s mission was, and why he was in mufti, not uniform. It was a secret of course, but then wasn’t everyone’s business these days?

Just another chicken.

Regent’s Park, London

Alston strolled through the park, trying to maintain his nonchalance. He had telephoned Constance earlier that morning; she hadn’t heard back from Joe Sullivan, but she was sure that Sullivan would have successfully dealt with de Lancey.

Arthur Oakford was on his way to France. He had dined with his old friend Edward Halifax the evening before, and Halifax had intimated that he was ready to press Churchill on making overtures to Hitler for peace, probably via the Italians. Oakford was confident the issue would split the Cabinet, leaving it vulnerable to the shove which the Duke of Windsor’s arrival in the country would provide.

Not long now.

But long enough for the British Expeditionary Force in France to be destroyed.

Alston was approaching the rose garden and once again saw the Swedish banker. He realized that that was probably a mistake. For them to bump into each other several times in the same park was possible, for it to be in the same place in the same park was too much of a coincidence.

They spent the obligatory minute smiling, shaking hands and moving off together.

‘I have an important message for Joachim,’ Alston began.

It only took three minutes for Alston to convey what he wanted to convey, and then, after agreeing a different spot to meet in the park next time, the two men split up.

Alston walked briskly south to Pall Mall and his club, where Major McCaigue was waiting for him. Armed with a sherry each, they found a corner of the library.

‘Your man was Joe Sullivan, wasn’t he?’ said McCaigue.

Alston nodded imperceptibly.

‘Sullivan was found stabbed in Mayfair last night. He died before they could get him to hospital.’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Alston. Damned unfortunate! ‘Any news of de Lancey?’

‘Yes. We have been following him. He is currently on his way to Paris on a flight from Hendon.’

‘How the devil did he manage that?’

‘Special orders from the Air Ministry. There can only be one reason why he has gone to Paris.’

‘To catch up with his father and try to stop him,’ said Alston. ‘Is there anything you can do about it?’

‘I can’t do anything obvious,’ said McCaigue. ‘But I can get someone on to him.’

‘Good. Do that. I wish Sullivan had done what he was paid to do. De Lancey should be dead.’

‘Quite so,’ said McCaigue.

Three hours later, Alston poured Constance a cup of tea at his flat. She was uncharacteristically quiet; Sullivan’s death had shaken her.

‘De Lancey has to be stopped,’ said Constance. ‘Before he gets to his father.’

‘I know,’ said Alston.

‘Can’t your friend in the secret service do something?’

‘He says he can keep an eye on him, but if he were to use his contacts to get de Lancey killed it would raise questions. At the moment his colleagues think de Lancey is a Russian spy and they aren’t listening to him. If they become suspicious of McCaigue it might blow the whole plan.’

On balance, Alston believed McCaigue’s caution was justified. It had been useful to have a man on the inside in the SIS and his support had been valuable. Pinning Millie de Lancey’s death on the German spy Hertenberg. Calling the police off their investigation into Freddie’s street accident. Keeping de Lancey out of the way. And numerous useful titbits of information that had come the SIS’s way and that McCaigue had passed on to Alston.

Alston owed McCaigue. When he became a leading member of a sensible pro-German government he would be happy to make good that debt.

But he couldn’t make McCaigue kill de Lancey.

‘Do you know anyone else who would do it?’ he asked Constance. ‘Any other ex-Nordic League thugs?’

‘Not really,’ said Constance. ‘Joe was always the best bet. I don’t know how we can get hold of someone, tell them to drop everything and get over to Paris immediately. You must have contacts in Paris?’

‘Yes. Bankers. Businessmen. The odd politician. No one who could organize what we want done.’ Except Charles Bedaux; that was just the kind of thing he might well be able to deal with. But Alston knew Bedaux had left Paris on a mission for the French government in Spain and North Africa, and was now in Madrid. ‘It would take a while to set up. A few days at least. And we don’t have a few days.’

Alston was finding the tension difficult to control. On the one hand success seemed so close. On the other, Conrad de Lancey seemed about to ruin everything. At least he was able to share his frustration with Constance, to let his habitual mask of impassive confidence slip for a few moments.

They sat in silence, Constance sipping her tea with a look of intense determination. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘Get me to France and I’ll stop de Lancey.’

Madrid

Theo and Otto Langebrück waited in the opulent lobby of the Ritz Madrid. Langebrück had turned out to be a much more congenial travel companion than Theo had imagined. He was a Rhinelander, about Theo’s age, widely read, and a Francophile — much more intelligent than his boss, Ribbentrop. This last was a good and a bad thing. Mostly a bad thing.

Theo had never been to Spain before. Like Holland until very recently, Spain was a neutral country, but there the similarities ended. Holland had enjoyed over a century of peace and prosperity. Spain, and Madrid in particular, had been torn apart by years of civil war. Half-destroyed buildings were everywhere, and the people still had a haunted look about them, even in the spring sunshine. Theo wondered whether Berlin would ever look like that; he couldn’t imagine it would.

Conrad had been involved in fighting around Madrid, Theo knew, although he had never got to grips with the intricacies of the civil war and who had fought whom where. The whole city was humbling; a reminder of what war, real war not the Sitzkrieg , could do.

‘Theo! How good to see you!’ Theo stood up to greet the familiar, ebullient person of Charles Bedaux. He introduced Langebrück. ‘Can we find somewhere more discreet to talk?’ Bedaux asked.